A Christmas Carol
by Y. Kuang
Summary: The tale of one young man, whose view on life had gone from the highest high to the lowest low and back again in a matter of ten years. I will not begin at the beginning, but rather, I shall begin at the end, and end at a new beginning.' Based on book.


Chapter 1

(A/N) I know I _should_ be working on _Predictability_, but this evil little plot bunny decided to grab control of my writing muse and set it loose on this fic…

So, in lieu of the Christmastime spirit, that evil little bunny decided that Charles Dickens was a good author, and that _A Christmas Carol_ could be used as a setting for this fic…

Disclaimer: I own nothing. Any characters you recognize belong to either J.K. Rowling with her Harry Potter series, or to Charles Dickens' _A Christmas Carol_, an excellent read while in the Christmas spirit, by the way. The plot belongs to Charles Dickens as well; personality traits are a cross between J.K. Rowling and Charles Dickens', not to mention my own special brand of personality that I added. All of the above belongs to J.K. Rowling and Charles Dickens; I only own the little words inbetween.

---

There was nothing especially _remarkable_ about ghosts. Not really.

It was just a matter of _who_ the specter decided to pay a visit to, that made the essential difference in their minds. Say, if they were to appear in front of a random man walking down the street, nine out of ten chances, the man would scream in fright, run from the spot as fast as humanly possible, or faint in terror. But then there was that one out of ten chances that the man might calmly greet the ghost, saying, "Top of the mornin' to you, Sir Nicholas." Or whatever the ghost's name happened to be.

But seeing ghostly specters is a tricky business. They were really just spirits that never went to rest, and many a time had wandered upon a busy street in London, England, just escaping the eye. However, if you were a certain _kind_ of person… the kind with magical blood in them (just a drop was needed, mind you, though it was clearer if magical blood was coursing through your veins all day long), you just _might_ be able to see the spirit of the deceased.

Might, you ask? Why might? Well, if you _were_ walking down a busy street in London, why would a ghost chance revealing himself to the every other nine out of ten men who _didn't_ have magical blood in them? Sure, and that would be a lark, wouldn't it? Why, the Ministry of Magic would be running every which way, covering the streets in a matter of minutes.

So, as I said before, there is nothing _remarkable_, or _extraordinary_, or whatever word those dime magazines and cheap novels use to describe ghost sightings. One must be positively _clear_ on this point before proceeding with the story.

Now, this is the tale of one certain young man, whose view on life had gone from the highest high to the lowest low and back again in a matter of ten years. I will not begin at the beginning, for that is far too ordinary for a tale like this, but, rather, I will begin at the end, and I shall end at a _new_ beginning.

James Potter was not of the bad sort, that was to be understood. At the prime of his life, aged twenty-eight, he had just experienced the things of someone aged ninety-eight, and then some. It was these experiences that had made him the man he was this very day, the ones that had extinguished the warmth in the brown eyes and turned them cold, the experiences that had chilled his heart and turned it to stone, the experiences that had stiffened the cool, breezy, attitude and positive outlook on life and turned it to a dead, frozen, attitude and a cynical as-can-be outlook on life.

But these experiences were not all terrible. They had turned him into a fine, astute, businessman, the owner of a most successful newspaper firm, and, oh, yes, wealthy. Mr. James Potter was _very_ wealthy, in terms of money, and that _was_ the most common use of the term 'wealth'.

Despite the above, no one ever took the time to stop by and say, with great cheer, "Good morning, Mr. Potter! How are you today?" No children walked up to him to ask what was o'clock, no beggars pleaded him to bestow a shilling or a knut, as the case may be, no man or woman ever stopped to greet him and ask if he was going to the Christmas festival this year.

But what did he care? It was the very thing he wanted, to edge his way along the crowded paths of life, chasing away the kind sympathy, writing it off as 'useless' (or perhaps it was the person _offering_ sympathies he was writing off as useless), and returning hesitant smiles with harsh glares.

But, at risk of sounding redundant, I will repeat, James Potter was not of the bad sort.

Cold, yes, understandably so, but lonely, as well.

---

And it was on this fine Sunday morning, the day before Christmas, James Potter was sitting behind his desk reading this month's bills with obvious distaste as he calculated the total in his mind.

"A thousand ruddy galleons on _electricity_… Damn muggles… Damn electricity… Damn bills…"

There should be something said about the room in which James Potter was cursing the world, for it was a most important room in the company, the room in which all articles and advertisements and stories and interviews alike must run through before being set in print.

It was a large, spacious room, painted a dull, gray-blue, with a large picture window behind the antique writing desk from which James might gaze upon the bustle of spirit going on below.

He never did, though. Rather, he drew the large, velvety, maroon, tasseled drapes and shut out the world below.

The room was completely barren; the only items in it were the desk and the person sitting in it. A fireplace faced opposite of the desk, but provided very little heat. One, lonely, little spark flickered about, fighting bravely for its life before the cold draft snuffed it out.

The cold temperatures in his office did not bother James Potter, for external heat and cold did not bother him. No warm fire could thaw his cold heart; no winter's frost could bring a frostier look into his eyes. The heaviest rain left him unaffected; the harshest winter storm was no match for his chill nature, the hardest hail hardly as stony and icy as the look in his eyes. He carried a chilly air about him that rivaled that of the coldest of winter nights…

But enough about the room and the person in it; there is more to the story than this one room.

For, at that very moment, the phone on the desk rang three short tones before being picked up by James ("Damn muggle contraptions!"), who barked into it, "Yes?"

"A merry Christmas, dear brother! I hope I find you in a pleasant mood?" a cheerful voice greeted on the other end of the phone. It was the voice of James's brother, Charles, inquiring, as always, that he come home to celebrate with the rest of his family. James had the idea that Charles, perhaps, asked him out of obligation, as never, in the past seven years, had he ever accepted an invitation. He wondered vaguely what Charles and his family might do if he ever did accept; probably feint and then scramble to break it to the children the Christmas rations would be even lower than before this year.

"_Pleasant_?" James snapped. "_Pleasant?_ Far from that! _Merry_? What reason have I to be merry? What reason do _you_ have to be merry? You're poor enough."

His face, mere minutes earlier having been pale, was now red with anger. Christmastime, hah! To James, Christmas was a _waste_ of time. It just meant spending more money on people one hardly ever knew, those damn charities knocking on one's door in the middle of the night begging for money for people one _didn't_ know, and bills, bills, and more bills.

"Come now, James," his brother continued in a jolly tone, "What reason have you to be dismal? You're rich enough."

"I have every reason!" James defended. "The bills, the workers, the cold, the-"

"Happiness, the giddiness, the charitableness of those more fortunate, and the equally charitable acts of those less fortunate," Charles interrupted jovially. "Honestly, James, why you don't see the good in the Christmas season is beyond me!"

"Beyond you!" James sneered. He was not surprised by the stupidity of his brother, whom he was ashamed to call family. The lad was penniless, yet he had three children, a wife, and a _dog_- if one could call that growling mutt a dog- to support. James knew for a _fact_ that during Christmas, Charles's children were disappointed with nothing but small, miserable, gifts, and the last of the carefully rationed and saved-up sugar was spent on the pie they served. "Beyond you!" he repeated, unable to think of anything better to say. He followed that up by muttering darkly, "Christmas! Bah! Humbug!"

"Don't be cross, James!"

"What else can I be," James replied pessimistically as he scrawled out a check to the _Larry's Electric Company_ (damning whoever Larry was for overcharging all the while), "when I live in a world with idiots and dreamers like you? Merry Christmas! Ha! What has Christmas ever done for you, besides depleting you of the last of your funds? If I had a penny for each time someone told me 'Merry Christmas', I'd be rich!"

"You _are_ rich," his brother interjected. "And besides-" at this point, James heard a rustling of noise; apparently, his brother's family had arrived, "- though Christmas has never put a knut in my pocket, it has brought me good tidings and cheer, and the goodwill of others, and for that, I am thankful for it, ever so!"

At this, there was an anxious pause on the other end of the line, waiting for James to answer. James himself, meanwhile, was pondering exactly how they had come to be related. Ripping off the check, James answered decidedly, "_You_, brother, are a numbskull. Keep Christmas in your own way, and let me keep it in mine."

"Keep it? You _don't_ keep it!"

"What I do with it is not your concern, you idiot!" James shouted into the speaker, while angrily sealing an envelope.

"Don't be angry, James!" his brother pleaded. "Come, dine with us tomorrow- it'll be lovely, won't it, Arabella?" There was some response on his end; Arabella's, apparently, before, Charles continued, "_Do_ come!"

"When hell freezes over, I shall dine at your house," James answered spitefully. "Until then, ration what little food you have among your _own_ family."

"But why? Why won't you come?" Charles tried again.

James cursed his brother inwardly for his stubbornness. Apparantly there was a stamp of Potter in the insolent man. Unfortunately, this was neither the ideal time nor place for it to appear. "Why did you get married?" he retorted impatiently, pounding down a self-adhesive stamp upon the envelope.

"Because I fell in love."

"Because you fell in love!" James laughed coldly, as if it were the only thing more ridiculous than a merry Christmas. "Tell me, was it worth it, giving up your house to your in-laws, hardly able to support your three children, and, I do believe, you have one on the way? How did your life end up? Miserably? Or, by some miracle, did I happen to miss the blessing in all that?"

Charles was silent for a moment, before replying quietly, "It was worth it, James, well worth it. I wake up every morning with the woman I love next to me every day, my three children who bring me joy every day of my life, and I believe that that's the-"

"MOST RIDICULOUS THING I HAVE EVER HEARD!" James roared in laughter on the other end of the line, as he scrawled out an address on the envelope. He continued, "Charles, you prat, wake up and smell the smog. The world is not a world for dreamers and idealists. It's-"

"You were in love once, too! Lily! How could you forget-"

"I was young, and I was a fool," James replied impatiently, as if it was an unimportant matter. "She and I both realized how very different we were, how very wrong we were for each other, and ended our courtship before someone was really hurt."

"_You_ were hurt," Charles persisted. "You became cold-hearted and bitter ever since she left you. I remember! You _used_ to have a human heart, James!"

"Good _day_!" James growled.

"Oh, I _do_ apologize for my outburst! James… why can't we be friends?" Charles cried.

"Good _day_!" James barked.

"I am sorry, so sorry-" his brother said quickly, sensing his brother's temper reaching the end of its fuse.

"Good _day_!" James repeated, rustling a stack of papers around, attempting to sound busy.

"Merry Christmas, James!" Charles said hurriedly.

"Good _day_!"

"And a happy New Year!"

"DAMN IT, CHARLES, HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO TELL YOU-"

_Click_. Charles hung up.

Sighing, James returned to damning the next name that appeared upon his checkbook. Thus began the very uneventful Christmas Eve for James Potter, who continued to mutter complaints throughout the day, adding Charles to the "damning" list.

Around a half past eight, a peculiar thought entered James's mind, and once it entered, it refused to leave. It was as if it were a little seed that had been planted there, and the more he ignored it, the larger it grew.

He blamed Charles for it; after all, he himself would never have thought such a thought without the useless meddlings of someone else.

Thus ensured that he had no part in the devious act of _provoking_ this thought, he proceeded to cautiously mull the subject of Lily Evans, his former fiancée.

She had left him on Christmas Eve, just seven years ago, exactly. Brought him out to a park bench, told him he had changed, that they were now two very different people, and that he… well, whatever it was, it was reason enough for her to return the ring he had given her and walked away, never looking back once.

But this was not a regret for James. No, he had summed that life was filled with too many regrets as it was, and what was done was done, and there wasn't anything he could have done to change her feelings. An admirable philosophy, from his old, great, grandfather, from whom he had inherited the newspaper from, bless the old man's money-loving soul.

Having thought what had been nagging him, with a clear conscience and no regrets in mind, James locked up his room, bid his secretary (who actually had the _nerve_ to ask for a day off on Christmas) good night, and left for home.

To proceed with the story, perhaps James Potter's definition of 'home' should be explained.

Contrary to the popular saying, "Home is where the heart is," James had his own special meaning for the place in which he resided in. "Home is where you've ate and slept in for more than three weeks," he responded, "and mine is the crummiest, most run-down, rat-infested, hole in the wall."

Odd that he would think so, as many a person walking past would describe it as, "Magnificently large, regal in appearance, and indescribably majestic." However, there was a certain… emptiness in the air about the old, Potter Mansion (the mansion had been in the family for generations, and James had the idea that it was intended to stay that way until the Potter line ended), one that chilled the air similarly to the one who inhabited it. Some said it was "haunted", but no, it was not.

It wouldn't do for a ghost of any sort to appear in the mansion.

And, fortunately for the ghosts, they hadn't the slightest yearning to go within twenty feet of the Potter Mansion, as, like in all high society houses- magical or muggle- ghosts were treated with extreme dislike.

Like a cobweb in the attic, they would be immediately brushed away for their unsightly presence; no magical socialite wanted to be known for sporting an unrest soul, specifically not the Potters… it gave both the house _and_ the family a bad name.

Perhaps a necessary bit of information would be that as much as James found the house despicable and often complained of it to no one in particular, he would never, in his life, _consider_ selling it, nor would he ever think of giving it up. He did, however, rent out a few of the more poorly rooms to people, as he had no use for the three-hundred, seventy-two rooms (not counting the four kitchens, attic, basement, three libraries, and six dining rooms, of course) in the house. In his mind, it was giving homeless people shelter, and he was making money, as well, so everyone was winning… so long as they never asked for anything more than that.

Thus, it did not surprise James Potter that a few rooms in his "hole-in-the-wall" were lit as he walked up the walkway to the mansion, past the iron set gate, past the stone gargoyles, past the thorny, gnarled, sticks that were the rosebushes the garden keeper had planted some Springs ago… winter was never the Potter Mansion's loveliest season. In fact, there wasn't _any_ season in which the mansion might be considered "lovely".

A thick fog had developed and was settling around the place, James had noticed. He had noticed because he had been hoping, hoping that it might engulf the decorative, seasonal, holly with red little berries and wreaths that were tied with neat little bows that his housekeeper had put up around the house and the iron gates. But, alas, no such luck. Rather, the fog swirled around all the decorations, leaving the green and red even more apparent in contrast with the grayness it carried.

---

Now, as I said that there was nothing extraordinary about ghosts, there is also nothing particularly _extraordinary_ about doorknockers.

Nothing at all. They were just melted bits of metal, poured into a mold, and cooled. Sometimes, they might have designs or carvings around them, occasionally engravings. Other times, they might be large, and heavy, or small, and thin.

James knew this knocker well, for it was the knocker he would see every day as he walked out the door and locked it, and when he returned home to unlock the door.

The knocker might be a point of interest to one who had never seen a doorknocker, before, as it is clear that it is a very poignant time in one's life to see something they have never seen before, but to anyone else, it was an object of décor, made intricate to display the wealth of the Potter family. In truth, it was partially correct, as the architect of the house had been given specific instructions on how to fashion the doorknocker, for the Potters _did_ wish every peddler or beggar who came upon it to realize that it was the living space of a wealthy, high society, family, so once they were rejected, it would seem as if they had been snubbed twice the more. But since then, the hearts of the Potters softened, and it was only there to show off the Potter family crest, a ring of ivy, which bore a lion's head that separated the beginning of the circle and the end of the circle, the Alpha and the Omega, and a grand "P" in the center of the ring.

The knocker was made of brass, old and tarnished, the ring of ivy making a whimsical design, and the lion adding to its majestic presence.

Thus, having seen this brass knocker many times upon his childhood, James did not expect it to… _change_ in the very least. After all, even the world of magic needed something consistent and dependable every once in the while.

And yet, when James walked up the steps to the door, he noticed something terribly amiss.

For the wittier in the audience, perhaps they have guessed already, and find my explanation unnecessary. But for those who are slower to catch on, I shall continue.

Yes, it was the doorknocker. He noticed this not at the very first moment, but whilst he was turning the key, that the doorknocker did not appear in its usual form. Instead of a lion, it was the head of his great-grandfather, though not much difference, as the expression held just about (if not more, in James's opinion) as much ferocity as the lion.

It was indeed his old, dead, great-grandfather, from the wrinkles on his forehead, to the pointy, sharp eyes that seemed to follow everyone with a shrewd look. The equally pointy, slightly turned up nose that flared whenever he was angry, to the thin-lipped smile he always wore… not a smile of warmth, but a smile of dread, as if predicting the fall and destruction of everyone within a twenty foot radius. (Funny, James had thought, as no one would even want to be within a twenty-_mile_ radius of the man.)

James Potter had seen queerer things than a doorknocker changing its shape in his twenty-and-one years, but _this_ doorknocker in particular… And the shape of his great-grandfather, nonetheless.

Upon closer inspection, however, it appeared in the form of the majestic lion once again.

Telling him that his eyes had been playing tricks on himself (as brass doorknockers wouldn't normally take shape of a long, deceased, family member whom everyone despised), James shook it out of his head and walked in.

"Evening, Master Potter," the butler greeted as James walked inside. "Your tea and daily paper are in the drawing room, and your dinner is almost ready. May I take your coat?

"Henry, I don't believe I shall be dining with you this evening, I'm feeling poorly," James nodded as an act of dismissal. "I feel I should retire… It's already nine."

Henry bowed and left.

Sighing, James shook his head, and walked up the grand staircase, his hand trailing upwards on the banister. As he did so, he wondered what could have possessed him to see his great-grandfather in a doorknocker, aside from an episode of insanity.

Perhaps by now, one might have found that almost everything about the Potter Mansion was a few notches above extraordinary. For those who haven't been blessed with quick comprehension, I shall state it now: Just about everything in the Potter Mansion was a few notches above extraordinary.

If a passing person were to take a glance at the outside of the Potter Mansion, they might think of the Buckingham Palace, or the Notre Dame Cathedral, with its Gothic style architecture. From the inside, a person might think of a palace with unexplainable drafts, due to its Baroque and Chippendale themes. The dark mahogany staircase swirled gently outward, covered in a plush, red, runner, the lighting a dim, warm, shade. And yet, despite the lavish and inviting furnishings, the Potter Mansion was anything but.

Hardly anyone had ever caught a glimpse inside, thus disillusioned to believe the inside would be equally cold and chilling as the outside.

James pondered this as he walked up the sixty-eight flights of stairs, of the peculiarity of the first Potters, and what had possessed them to design such an illusion of a house, inside and outside contrasting mood sets. He knew for a fact that the house hadn't been modified in the slightest since it was built, and that his ancestors would have it just so. Apparently, they were of a high-class, well-to-do family, rude, snobbish, and, most importantly, incredibly rich. The Potters had established its name and earned itself a reputation for this, but later generations appeared to have lost the negative genes, while maintaining the family name and wealth.

He furthered these ponderings to wondering why his great-grandfather (who had outlived all of his sons and grandsons, for some peculiar reason) would leave the house to _him_, rather than to Charles.

After all, he had thought, everyone had _adored_ his younger brother, the one with all the faults that made him faultless, the one nobody could be angry at for too long. Ah, yes, when he was six years old and perfecting his Latin, his brother was three and perfecting his gurgling. This pattern continued all throughout his life, perhaps his one brief shining moment when he had received his letter admitting him to Hogwarts, in which his family had paraded over from France, England, Ireland, even the Americas. And it had all been for him. The crowd was quickly distracted, though, when his eight-year-old brother came in with his imaginary pet, and all the attention was focused on his brother again. Then when he had announced that he had been made Head Boy, his mother had made him a cake which was later eaten by Charles, and she hoped that he would "understand".

He was the mature, intelligent, accomplished one, his brother was the adorable, cute, one.

And yet, his great-grandfather was the one that saw past all that. He'd take one long look at Charles, then one at James, then one at the people cooing over Charles, and he'd draw a long breath, and say to James, "Nutters, the whole lot o' 'em. Nothin' spectacular about drooling toddlers. Now, come on, boy, want to lose to me in chess or review your Latin declensions?"

Yes, James had a soft spot for the old man, probably the only one in the family that could stand him, in fact. After all, Jacob Potter was the most cynical, sensible man in the family, and had always told the truth, no matter how bitter or sweet. He seemed to take pride in the misery of others, as if he had inflicted the misery himself. But deep down, everyone knew the old man had a soft spot, particularly ones that struggled fruitlessly… he himself had, going through the first war against Grindewald, when times were especially harsh. Thus, his favorite had always been James… He had showed it by criticizing and picking on him the most… He only did that to people he _truly_ liked.

Coming to this conclusion, James let his mind to rest as he convinced himself that it was probably better to just stop thinking now, before his thoughts became even more complicated.

---

Now, this would be a very sort story if I were to end it here, with the doorknocker situation dismissed as a mere slight of eye, and left James to his biting, sullen, self. But that is not the point of this story, for sullen, harsh, people can be found right on the street, and tricks on the eye are very common. A miserable man on Christmas Eve would not do for a complete story, would it? Thus, we must continue.

About three hours to midnight (nine o'clock, for those who are not mathematically inclined), something peculiar happened.

James, not being particularly fond of the dark, had stoked the dying embers of the fire, fueling it with more coal. At the toll of Big Ben, the flames flared up, as if on signal.

And then something peculiar happened. The smooth, cold, bricks of the fireplace, illuminated by the light of the fire, took on a most peculiar form. Each and every brick, once blank, now bore the resemblance of his great-grandfather, Jacob Potter, staring blankly at his great-grandson. And oh, it was a menacing stare. One that only Jacob Potter could manage.

James, never being one to believe in "signs", frowned, convincing himself that rather than his eyes, it was the "damn cracks in the bricks, those damn manufacturers, never able to use high-quality bricks". As soon as this thought crossed his mind, old Jacob seemed even more furious, as a howling wind (though James had been _sure_ he'd shut the it) released from his window blew out the fire.

And it was at this very moment that James had the strangest feeling that he was being watched by someone. Turning around, he discovered a sight that sent a very chill to his bones.

Yes, indeed. It was Jacob Potter himself, pale and transparent, a trail of chains behind him.

Jacob's mouth dropped down to the floor and let out a blood-stopping moan.

"Jacob?" James asked incredulously. "I thought-"

Another long moan was emitted from Jacob's mouth, as he pushed his mouth back to its proper place. "You thought I was dead," Jacob smiled unpleasantly by way of greeting. "Well, I am. Are you satisfied, James Potter?"

"What brings you here, then?" James murmured. "What do you want with me?"

"Much," Jacob answered, his lower jaw dropping again. He moaned again, not bothering to pick it up. "You, James Potter… INSOLENT FOOL! You wonder what reason have I to come… WHAT REASON HAVE I NOT TO COME?" Jacob let out a fourth moan. "You have always had far too much of me in you… And look what's become of me!"

James, somewhere along this speech, found his voice. "What _has_ become of you, Jacob?"

A look of disgust crossed Jacob Potter's face. "Can you not _see_? Have you no _eyes_? _This_ is what has become of me!" he let out a low moan, rattled his chains, followed by a loud sob. "Doomed to travel the earth forever, viewing all the misery and despair I could have changed in life."

"And what of the chains you are burdened with, Jacob?" James asked tentatively, not wanting him to moan again.

"And what of the chains!" Jacob repeated mockingly. "I'll tell you. These are the chains I willingly wear, for I created them myself in life, link by link. You have a long chain yourself… Not nearly as long as mine, for you are young, but be warned, James, if your actions do not change, your chain will be longer than mine by far!"

"How did you create the chains?"

Jacob laughed harshly. "You do not know, grandson? By every foul, uncaring deed, you have shaped, fashioned, molded, yet another link to your endless chain." He rattled his own lengthy iron cable, which appeared to stretch miles behind him. "But this is not why I have come."

James stared at his great-grandfather uncertainly. "Then why _have_ you come?"

"WHY HAVE I COME?" Jacob rattled his chains again, moaning. "I have come to warn you of your fate, should you continue your actions! I have come to tell you how to redeem yourself! I have come to give you a chance to escape my fate!"

"But _why_ did you deserve such a fate?" James questioned. "You were always an astute business man, and you built us a good name."

"Ah, but did I build a friendship with those less fortunate? Did I care for the poor? Did I ever use our money to do good? Did I do anything for anyone else's benefit? Did I ever help a troubled soul?" Jacob drew a breath. "NO! NO, I DID NOT! AND YOU WONDER WHY I DESERVED SUCH A FATE? INSOLENT FOOL! HAVE YOU LISTENED TO A SINGLE WORD I HAVE SAID?"

James, figuring it was a rhetorical question, and the ghost would not appreciate an answer, remained mute as Jacob's unhinged jaw snapped at him.

"Now, grandson, listen now, if you never have before, for my time is running short," Jacob said. "Three spirits will visit you, to warn you of what you have become. Expect the first when the bell tolls ten. Expect the second when the bell tolls eleven. Expect the last at midnight."

"Couldn't I just take them all at once and get it done with?"

Jacob stared at James fixedly. "You are too much like me, grandson," he murmured. "You must change." After this short statement, he let out an ear-piercing scream, and flew out the window.

Following his departure, the window slammed shut, just as Big Ben tolled ten o'clock.

---

(A/N): Ack, it's been nearly two and a half years since I last updated this, but upon rereading this a while ago, I realized there was something terribly amiss with the ages of James and his brother, so I came back to edit it... then I added a few sentences here and there to spruce it up a bit. I've been on something of an editing/writing spree as of late, so you can be sure to expect a bit more frequency in updates in my fics. Between this and _Predictability_, I'm hardly going to have time to read HBP, but this is my valiant attempt to update this fic. Now, I realize I've said before that I'm going to update this poor, neglected fic, but the fact that I've taken the initiative to edit it does give me some more credit, doesn't it?

Well, cheers! 9 more days 'til HBP!

Love from,

Lynn


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